The Hanging Garden

`I'm just wondering if he's ever been linked to machete attacks.’

`Machetes? Let me think…’

She was so quiet for so long, he thought the co

Clackety-clack of her keyboard. Rebus was biting his bottom lip, almost drawing blood.

`God, yes,' she said. `A year or so back, a battle on an estate. Rival gangs, that was the story, but everyone knew what was behind it: namely, drugs and pitch incursions.’

`And where there's drugs, there's Tarawicz?’

`There was a rumour his men were involved.’

`And they used machetes?’

`One of them did. His name's Patrick Ke

`Can you give me a description?’

`I can fax you his picture. But meantime: tall, heavy build, curly black hair and a black beard.’

He wasn't part of the Tarawicz retinue. Two of Mr Pink's best muscle-men had been left behind in Newcastle. For safety's sake. Rebus pint PK down as one of the Paisley attackers – Cafferty again in the clear.

`Thanks, Miriam. Listen, about that rumour…’

`Remind me.’

`Telford supplying Tarawicz rather than the other way round: anything to back it up?’

`We tracked Pink Eyes and his men. A couple of jaunts to the continent; only they came back clean.’

`Leading you up the garden path?’

`Which made us start reassessing.’

`Where would Telford be getting the stuff?’

`We didn't reassess that far.’

`Well, thanks again…’

`Hey, don't leave me hanging: what's the story?’

`Morning Glory. Cheers, Miriam.’

Rebus went and got a coffee, put sugar in it without realising, had finished half the cup before he noticed. Tarawicz was attacking Telford. Telford was blaming Cafferty. The resulting war would destroy Cafferty and weaken Telford. Then Telford would pull off the Maclean's break-in but be grassed up…

And Tarawicz would fill the vacuum. That had been the plan all along. Bluesbreakers: `Double-Crossing Time'. Christ, it was beautiful: set the two rivals against one another and wait for the carnage to end…

The prize: something Rebus didn't yet know. There had to be something big. Tarawicz, the theory went, was sourcing his drugs not from London but from Scotland. From Tommy Telford.

What did Telford know? What was it that made his supply so valuable? Did it have something to do with Maclean's? Rebus got another coffee, washed down three Paracetamol with it. His head felt ready to explode. Back at his desk, he tried Claverhouse, couldn't get him. Paged him instead, and got an immediate call back.

`I'm in the van,' Claverhouse said.

`I've something to tell you.’

`What?’

Rebus wanted to know what was happening. Wanted in on the action. `It's got to be face to face. Where are you parked?’

Claverhouse sounded suspicious. `Down from the shop.’

`White decorator's van?’

`This definitely isn't a good idea…’

`You want to hear what I've got?’

`Sell me the idea.’

`It clears everything up,' Rebus lied.

Claverhouse waited for more, but Rebus wasn't obliging. Theatrical sigh: life was hard on Claverhouse.

`I'll be there in half an hour,' Rebus said. He put down the phone, looked around the office. `Anyone got a set of overalls?’

`Nice disguise,' Claverhouse said, as Rebus squeezed into the front seat.

Ormiston was in the driver's seat, plastic piece-box open in front of him. A flask of tea had been opened, steaming up the windscreen. The back of the van was full of paint-tins, brushes and other paraphernalia. A ladder was strapped to the roof, and another was leaning against the wall of the tenement beside which the van had been parked. Claverhouse and Ormiston were in white overalls, daubed with swatches of old paint. The best Rebus could come up with was a blue boilersuit, tight at the waist and chest. He pulled the first few studs open as he settled in.

`Anything happening?’

`Jack's been in twice this morning.’

Claverhouse looked towards the shop. `Once for ciggies and a paper, once for a can of juice and a filled roll.’

`He doesn't smoke.’

`He does for this operation: perfect excuse to nip to the shop.’

`He hasn't given you any signal?’

`You expecting him to put the flags out?’

Ormiston exhaled fishpaste.

`Just asking.’

Rebus checked his watch. `Either of you want a break?’

`We're fine,' Claverhouse said.

`What's Siobhan up to?’

`Paperwork,' Ormiston said with a smile. `Ever come across a woman house painter?’

`Done much house painting yourself, Ormie?’

This brought a smile from Claverhouse. `So, John,' he said, `what is it you've got for us?’

Rebus filled them in quickly, noting Claverhouse's mounting interest.

`So Tarawicz is pla

Ormiston said at the end.

Rebus shrugged. `That's my guess.’

`Then why the hell are we bothering to set up a sting? Just let them get on with it.’

`That wouldn't give us Tarawicz,' Claverhouse said, his eyes slitted in concentration. `If he sets up Telford for a fall, he's home and dry. Telford gets put away, and all we've done is replace one villain with another.’

`And an altogether nastier species at that,' Rebus said.

`What? And Telford's Robin Hood?’

`No, but at least with him, we know what we're dealing with.’

`And the old dears in his flats love him,' Claverhouse said.

Rebus thought of Mrs Hetherington, readying herself for her trip to Holland. The only drawback: she had to fly from Inverness… Sakiji Shoda had flown from London to Inverness…

Rebus started laughing.

`What's so fu

He shook his head, still laughing, wiping his eyes. It wasn't fu

`We could let Telford know what we know,' Claverhouse said, studying Rebus. `Set him against Tarawicz, let them eat each other alive.’

Rebus nodded, took a deep breath. `That's certainly one option.’

`Give me another.’

`Later,' Rebus said. He opened the door. `Where are you off to?’

Claverhouse asked. `Got to fly.’

32

But in fact he was driving. A long drive, too. North through Perth and from there into the Highlands, taking a route which could be cut off during the worst of the winter. It wasn't a bad road, but traffic was heavy. He'd get past one slowmoving lorry only to catch up with another. He knew he should be thankful for small mercies: in the summer, caravans could end up fronting mile-long tailbacks.

He did pass a couple of caravans outside Pitlochry. They were from the Netherlands. Mrs Hetherington had said it was out of season for a trip to Holland. Most people her age would go in the spring, ready to fill their senses with the bulb-fields. But not Mrs Hetherington. Telford's offer: go when I say. Telford probably provided spending money, too. Told her to have a good time, not worry about a thing…

As he neared Inverness, Rebus hit dual carriageway again. He'd been on the road well over two hours. Sammy might be coming round again; Rhona had his mobile number. Inverness Airport was signposted from the road into town. Rebus parked and got out, stretched his legs and arched his back, feeling the vertebrae pop. He went into the terminal and asked for security. He got a small balding man with glasses and a limp. Rebus introduced himself. The man offered coffee, but Rebus was jumpy enough after the drive. Hungry though: no lunch. He gave the man his story, and eventually they tracked down a representative of Her Majesty's Customs. During his tour of the facilities, Rebus got the impression of a low-key operation. The Customs official was in her early-thirties, rosycheeked and with black curly hair. There was a purple birthmark, the size of a small coin, in the middle of her forehead, looking for all the world like a third eye.